Their
shriveled swords are red with rust,Their
plumed heads are bowed,Their
haughty banner, trailed in dust,Is
now their martial shroud.And
plenteous funeral tears have washedThe
red stains from each brow,And
the proud forms, by battle gashedAre
free from anguish now.

Like
the fierce Northern hurricaneThat
sweeps the great plateau,Flushed
with triumph, yet to gain,Come
down the serried foe,Who
heard the thunder of the frayBreak
o'er the field beneath,Knew
the watchword of the dayWas
"Victory or death!"

Long
had the doubtful conflict ragedO'er
all that stricken plain,For
never fiercer fight had wagedThe
vengeful blood of Spain;And
still the storm of battle blew,Still
swelled the glory tide;Not
long, our stout old Chieftain knew,Such
odds his strength could bide.

Twas
in that hour his stern commandCalled
to a martyr's graveThe
flower of his beloved land,The
nation's flag to save.By
rivers of their father's goreHis
first-born laurels grew,And
well he deemed the sons would pourTheir
lives for glory too.

For
many a mother's breath has sweptO'er
Angostura's plain --And
long the pitying sky has weptAbove
its moldered slain.The
raven's scream, or eagle's flight,Or
shepherd's pensive lay,Alone
awakes each sullen heightThat
frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons
of the Dark and Bloody GroundYe
must not slumber there,Where
stranger steps and tongues resoundAlong
the heedless air.Your
own proud land's heroic soilShall
be your fitter grave;She
claims from war his richest spoil --The
ashes of her brave.

Thus
'neath their parent turf they rest,Far
from the gory field,Borne
to a Spartan mother's breastOn
many a bloody shield;The
sunshine of their native skySmiles
sadly on them here,And
kindred eyes and hearts watch byThe
heroes sepulcher.